


Hero

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Future, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:52:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the people of a revolutionary country are too busy hoping for a hero that won't come, said country has to take matters in his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hero

Smoke twirled in front of his eyes in undefined, soft shapes right before they flew away into the navy blue sky, going along with a low whisper. How many cries for help had he uttered so far?

_Streets flooded with bodies, screams from every corner, signs, protesters. "We want our money." "This war is not ours." "We are not your slaves." "3 months is more than enough." He placed his hand on the windowsill and grabbed his phone. His boss didn't pick up._ Help _, he looked at his people: he didn't have the money to pay them – he wished he did._

_Cold, cold winter; snow falling incessantly, roads blocked, but who needed roads anyway? Was there anyone who could still afford a car? He looked at the sides of the street: pale, blueing faces, frozen bodies, families holding each other, searching for heat. He tugged on his ragged coat._ Help _, he whispered into his cold hand, staring at the white sky._

_Paperwork, so much paperwork. He looked at the nearest sheet of paper and felt sick as the numbers stared at him. What else could he do to pay his debts? He crossed his arms over the table and placed his head on his entwined hands._ Help _, he muttered weakly._

_"I abdicate." he heard his old boss' voice in his head over and over again. His new boss never showed up._ Help _, he said to a dark room, sitting against a crumbling wall._

_A whistling sound came to his ears right before the explosion, screams that sounded like déjà vu's. In three hundred years, not much had changed._ Help _, he whispered, as another rustic bomb hit him like a punch to his gut._

_A gun pointed to a child's head, a soldier screaming at a crying woman in a foreign language._ Help _, he said, looking at the blue sky, helpless. The child was shot._

_"We are now forming an allied government." He was forced to shake hands with his new Chinese boss._ Help _, he mentally begged,_ help, help, help _._

"But help never came." He told himself as the first sunrays seeped through the fog. Not even when he sold parts of his house to pay his debts.

He stood up and put out his last bit of cigarette, walking towards the opening where there had once been a door. Soft footsteps could be heard coming from a small distance away as a blond man came into his sight, followed by a brunette and a dark-haired boy who looked just old enough to be allowed in the city.

"Is that it?" He asked in French. The man shook his sweaty head and a small smile appeared in Francis' cracked lips, his heart filling with hope.

"It's hard to come here." The brunette said, reminding Francis of the shame he felt for not being able to protect his citizens, to have them running in the shadows of his own beautiful Paris. Except it wasn't his anymore, in spite of Yao's claims of a joint government. Nor was it beautiful, with its parks transformed into industries and XVIII century houses destroyed to give room to grey apartment blocks.

The three guests sat on the old, dirty leather sofa as France pulled up a stool and put two old books under one of its broken legs.

"Do you know how many are coming?" He asked cautiously.

"I believe twenty more." A man at the door said and Francis could not stop a second smile from forming on his lips as his old finance minister came in sight. "Fashionably late as ever." The mistreated, yet still pompous man remarked, smiling as well.

\--x--

"Someone told me love would all save us."

France looked at each and every face in the small, crowded room.

"What do we call love? Someone here might say 'Jesus' and some might laugh." A bittersweet smile appeared on his face as he realised he might be mistaken. "Maybe no one will say that, so I may." He stopped, pondering. "Well, I might tell you all a story instead." He took a deep breath. "At some point in the past, at a time you'd call 'a long time ago', _I_ would have said 'Jesus', for in a long time ago most part of the world population believed in God. Or, well, they believed in some sort of god at least." He shook his head, dismissing his digression. "And there were millions, even billions of Christians, who would say Jesus was love, and love would save us all. But how could that be? Anyone might look around and say 'look what love gave us', for we had killed so many in Jesus' name, for we only loved those who loved Jesus." He paused, staring almost longingly at the dirty wall before snapping back to reality. "It was a world full of killing and blood spilling and _actual_ love never came." Four pairs of eyes, engraved in thin faces, were focused on Francis, avidly drinking in every word he said, as thirsty for his stories as they were for anything anyone could offer them instead of dirty water. "And now, look around." He continued, gesturing vaguely towards the hole that had once been a window. "We destroyed our resources. Did you know that, once, there were bombs that could destroy entire continents?" Two people nodded, while the others looked astounded. "Yes, there were, and food tasted like... well, food here was the best you could ever had. And France" he felt ambiguous about referring to himself in third person, but, for once, it mattered; for once he was doing something for, _with_ his people, even if all he could do was talk about how he had once been 'the country of love'.

He didn't mean to let tears prickle in his eyes, but they did, reminding him of much happier years. "But now, we're just... under China's rule. We're a dull, grey country where love is barely known. And, you know, once, right before the merging, they told us a hero would save us." France had to contain his bitter laughter, though his former minister didn't, and he couldn't stop pride from inflating his chest just a little. "This hero was called America. Now, it's what we call Southern Canada, barely resisting China's attacks. And our _Resistance_  still hopes that help will come, when we would, once, rise in protests and strikes if one euro, I mean yen, was missing from our salaries." He closed his eyes briefly, and as he reopened them and stared at his people, a fiery strength pierced his blue irises. "And I say I'm not going to stand here and wait. Which is why Fauvert has brought you here. We'll hold on to the wings of the eagles, we'll resist." He leant against the closest wall, breathing deeply, beads of sweat prickling in his brow. The last part had come in an enraged whisper and the effort of resisting had strained his barely healed ribs. He inhaled deeply, stopping himself from cringing at the pain, and continued. "They are watching us, not now, I believe, but they are. They turned us into unloving beings and we shall return to our loving selves. We shall be humans once again, not only mass production robots." He stopped, staring at his audience.

\--x--

"Thank you." France told his former finance minister, as everyone was already leaving through the stairs. He hated to think of the mistreatment of his Paris. Two centuries ago lifts were available in every building; now, there were only metal carcasses on the few buildings that had survived the merging to remind him of glorious days, of when there was despair, but not enough to send his people spiralling into the pit of starvation. "Thanks for bringing them."

Fauvert winked playfully, despite the sad smile on his lips, and left, leaving France, once again, alone.

The country walked to the empty windowsill and sat there, picking a cigarette butt from his pocket, unwilling to light the last of his valuable goods despite the desperate craving assailing him. Deciding against it, he put it back into his pocket and watched as those who had been with him only minutes before now left the building surreptitiously.

"And now that the world isn't ending, it's love that I'm sending to you." He kissed the fingertips of his index and middle fingers, then turned them in the direction of his new resistance. "It isn't the love of a hero..." He sighed, watching as the small group went in different directions. "That's why I fear it won't do."

He heard a shot and immediately felt the pain, as if his own chest had been pierced by a bullet. He knew it had been one of his. 

**Author's Note:**

> The story is set in what I believe could be called a dystopic world in which the 2008 crisis lead to Europe's utter disgrace. In general terms, it was conquered by China; the US couldn't resist either, being annexed by Canada.  
> About Francis' personality: I know he's not exactly the lovely, playful git he usually is, but that would be 4 centuries in the future, when his country's pretty much invaded and conquered. Besides, I have always felt that Francis doesn't really reflect his people in the strikes/revolutions/protests matter, and I'm not 100% sure what the Hetalia characters represent (their government? stereotypes? the people? the country's foreign policy?), but I really think France should be more revolutionary.  
> This was inspired in the song Hero, by Nickelback (yeah, I know, people hate them, what can I do?), and I'm quite aware of it not perfectly following the lyrics.  
> No accent was shown here because the conversations are supposed to have been had in English.  
> Hetalia belongs to Himaruya.
> 
> (I - who is "I"? We shall never know - have orphaned this work, but, you know, criticise it as much as you want.)


End file.
